


coming home

by kitschy



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Modern Era, POV Character of Color, Rating May Change, medium burn (slow burn for writers who have no self-control), not specifically following leroux or alw or anything i am influenced by several canons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25357219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitschy/pseuds/kitschy
Summary: Christine returns from Juilliard with the same dreams she's always had: to sing with the Paris Opera, establish her career as a soprano, and make her family, the Khans, proud. Faced with his old student—who is suddenly a woman—Erik is not sure what he wants.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, meg giry - Relationship
Comments: 26
Kudos: 24





	1. Reintroductions, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! i've had this "Juilliard AU" idea in my head for an incredibly long time, several months at least, but was always prevented from tackling it due to school, poor mental health, writer's block, what have you. i can't promise to update once or twice a week like some amazing fic writers out there do, but i'm really determined to see this story through, so if you like it, feel free to stick around and bother me for more :~)
> 
> even though she'll hate this because she's not a poto fan and despises erik, this is dedicated to one of my best friends--we'll call her j--for encouraging me to write, listening to me rant about a franchise she is only invested in via caring about me, and generally being one of the most lovable, selfless people i know. <3 (i lied to her for a really long time and would tell her all my ideas for this fic under the guise that it was some fic i was already reading; one day i was like "haha surprise that author is me," and she flipped out and has been cheering me on ever since. i would not be publishing today, or possibly ever, if not for her.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 1/2 of this chapter :~) next part will be up within the next couple days because it's pretty much already written, i just want to have a semi-consistent chapter word count!
> 
> also i want u all to know, as we begin our journey, that my christine is mixed (if you didn't already know from my aggressive tags, lol). the story isn't really about her race, but if you think she Has To Be Fully White there are plenty of fics you can read about how her super pale skin makes her angelic!
> 
> EDIT: P.S. sorry to those of you who read this when i, a Dumb Writer, had not removed my note-to-self "[rewrite this; she makes her way through the crowd and kind of loses him and then bam he be there]." all mistakes shoouuuld be fixed now heh

Awash with the light of late afternoon, Christine was peering into the mirror, tilting her face to examine it and frowning at what she saw.

Her eyes skimmed over most of it. She knew her hair, curling almost to her waist, was too long. The blotches under her eyes were so dark she might as well have smudged coal there, as they had been since she’d landed. But one thing was new: out of nowhere, she'd broken out worse than she had in months, and with a colony of angry red pockmarks on her left cheek, she looked like a teenager again.

Christine rolled her eyes at nobody. When she was younger, her face had done this every time she was stressed; the week before her Juilliard results, she’d been tempted to ask Erik if he had any extra masks lying around. Of course, this had only prompted thoughts of how horribly vain and shallow she was being, and how offended her teacher would be if he knew what she was thinking, but it had still been difficult not to feel insecure, and it was just as difficult now.

Maybe it wasn't bad enough that everyone would notice; then again, who knew who she might have to see at the Garnier tonight? God knew looks mattered as a singer, and important people were sure to be there. Including her old vocal teacher himself. Not that he would care about that sort of thing, unless he did, in which case she shouldn’t care anyway. Not that she should care _at all._

 _Being a woman sucks_ , thought Christine, and she reached for her tin of concealer.

“What are you so worried about?” asked Meg. Visible in the mirror, she lay on her stomach on Christine’s bed, meowing noises playing from her phone at random intervals. She had been there all afternoon, shifting positions constantly, dropping conversations halfway through to think.

“A lot of things.” She shrugged as she opened the tin and dipped her finger in. “Nothing reasonable. Tonight, everyone, my femininity, you know.”

There was a rustling of sheets as Meg sat up and laid back against the headboard. As Christine watched her in the mirror, she hesitated, opening her mouth and then closing it before grabbing a pink throw pillow and hugging it tight. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Christine's brows crept up of their own accord. “Do _you_ want to talk about something?”

“No, no. If you’re stressed, we can talk about it later. As in, it’s not an emergency, so if you’re not in the right headspace—”

“Don’t worry about me.” Actually, her mind seized quite eagerly at the opportunity to worry about somebody else. Abandoning the concealer, she turned around and crossed her arms. Since she'd landed back in Paris four days ago, Meg had been somewhat quiet—an easy change to notice, even in the midst of unpacking, seeing other old friends, and mentally adjusting to being home. The fact that her best friend had kept her kitten videos to herself just now was concerning in itself. Christine had tried a couple times to coax the news out of her, whatever it was, but had been consistently brushed off; it was hard to imagine Meg would be silent if something were really wrong, but if she was going to open up now, damn the party, damn Erik, and damn the Paris Opera.

Conscious of her posture, Christine uncrossed her arms. Gently, she said, “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But if something is up, don’t keep it from me because you don’t want to burden me or whatever, okay?”

For a long moment, Meg looked down at her crossed ankles, one foot flexing and straightening, flexing and straightening. Then, abruptly, she spoke.

"I think I'm not-straight." She looked up, surprised to hear her own words. "I mean, I'm definitely not. For a fact."

Relief made Christine’s shoulders sag, and a smile bloomed across her face. "Oh my goodness. Okay. Thank you for telling me. Can I ask when you figured it out?”

Meg arranged the pillow in her lap and began tapping it gently. "You're not... it's not weird?" she said.

"Are you kidding?" Christine went to sit on the edge of the mattress and extended a hand, which, after a pause, Meg took. "When have you known me to care about that stuff?"

"Never, I guess, but since we're so close—like, we've had so many sleepovers."

"I don't think you're a sexual threat because you like women," she said, and the gratefulness on her friend's features hurt to see. "Oh, Meg, what did you think I was gonna say? How long have you been waiting to tell me?"

She made noncomittal noise, a sort of hummed _I dunno_. "A long time. But I knew I wanted to tell you in real life, not on a call. I thought I'd tell you at the airport, as soon as your aunt and uncle weren't listening, but..." She looked up, then away. "Nothing had changed, it was like you'd never left, all that cliché stuff. And I didn't want to be the one to _make_ it all change."

Christine took her pillow, set it aside, and held both of Meg's hands tight. "This doesn't change anything." She frowned. "I know it has nothing to do with me, and it's, like, society's fault, but I hate that I even have to tell you that. Things suck."

"They kind of do.” At this, the tension seemed to bleed out of her, and she slumped a little, trying for a smile. “I just didn't want you to think I was secretly in love with you or something."

Christine snorted. “If you were secretly in love with me, you wouldn't be so rude all the time.”

“Not true. We’re both mean to people we like. But anyway”—she grinned now—“I'd never go for you. Your thing for white men alone is a deal-breaker. And I don’t want someone taller than me. And—”

"Okay," Christine said, standing with an eye-roll. "Why tell me this right before the party? Is there some hot new dancer you haven't told me about?"

Meg climbed off the bed and pulled a dress out of her bag. Some of her makeup was scattered on the bedside table; much to the Khans' chagrin, she'd been over every day since Christine's return from New York. "Not exactly. I'll tell you everything, but I wanna see if you can guess first."

"Great. One more thing to think about tonight." She pulled off her sweater, then yanked her jeans off each leg, bracing a hand against the wall as they began to chat about who would be there, would there be food, and which ballerinas they had to avoid. Speaking of dance: she was woefully out of practice. But this was no time to recall how long it had been since she _had_ danced—over five years—or how she no longer had the ballet body that everyone at the opera had known her with.

Would anyone notice the change—all the changes? Would they care? Did _she_ care if they cared?

After she and Meg fastened each other’s dresses and took obligatory pictures, she took a moment to study herself properly. Christine could fit into her mother's clothing now, and wore her long, low-backed dress of deep red silk; it’d been her favorite, according to Nadir. For the first time, she could see how she looked like a photograph of Jamileh Khan. Taller, lighter, and with curlier hair, but the same serious kind of youthful, soft features and sharp eyes.

She didn't feel like her mother. The woman who refused to change her last name, even for the love of her life; the lawyer who had left her family in Iran for boarding school at thirteen. From what little she remembered and all she'd been told, Christine still imagined her the same way she had when she'd been six: the bravest, most headstrong woman in the world.

Meg came up behind her, purse slung over her shoulder. She was brave, too. She had waited to come out, but in her place, Christine wasn’t sure she’d have worked up the nerve for months. And here she was, nervous for a party at the place she knew better than any other, wondering whether she seemed like she had her degrees, whether she could really sing. She did. She could. She thought, anyway.

"You look amazing," said Meg. "No homo."

"Shut up. You don't have to say that." Instinctively, she pulled her in for a hug, shutting her eyes and holding her tight. She could still rest her chin on the crown of her best friend's head.

"I know," Meg replied, muffled, "it's just funny. Are you okay?" She pulled back. "Nervous to see your favorite teacher ever again? Will you swoon when he greets you?"

"Erik is kind of the least of my worries. At least I know he's on my side. And no," she added, "because I'm not fifteen, and it takes more than a good tenor to get me now."

Meg ignored the second part. "On your _side?_ " she repeated. "The company is not your enemy just because you're not in it yet. I love you, but you'll be lucky if most people remember you, okay?"

"Awesome, thanks."

"It's just that people are selfish, Christine. They don't think about _petits rats_ who flew off to college. But you’ll _make_ them remember you.” She grinned. "If things really go south, just pretend to come out. Apparently, it makes people act really nice."

"Not everybody is as nice as me."

"Humbler than ever, O Majesty.” Meg squeezed her wrist encouragingly. “Let's just go, have fun, and get you to re-meet everybody, okay?"

Christine nodded, took a breath, and turned to fetch her shoes.

“Wait.” When she turned back, Meg had her arms crossed, and tugged at her sleeve with the fingers on one hand. “Thank you for acting so normal. And not, you know, letting things change, I guess.”

“Oh my gosh, Meg—” she pulled her in for another embrace, quick but fierce. And thinking only of them, only of this room, she said, “I will _never_ let things change.”

* * *

For the last five years, the Palais Garnier had been nothing more than Christine's lock screen. Catching glimpses of it whenever she checked the time had not prepared her to be inside it again.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected—a dramatic silence to allow her to take it all in?—but between the crush of flashing dresses and heady perfumes, the strong gold light soaking everything, the champagne flutes balanced in fingers, and the fast-paced chatter, memory had no chance to flood back. A string quartet at the top of the marble staircase all but bounced as they played. At the bright opening notes of _Eine Kleine Nacht Musik,_ Christine smiled; Erik would have hated that.

 _Did_ hate that, in all probability. Because he was in this foyer. Along with approximately a billion others, some of whom would go before her at auditions in October, some of whom would not be re-invited to the company, and some of whom would see her as direct competition.

"Are you gonna faint?" Meg nudged her side, and Christine looked over with a start.

"Very funny," she said over the din. "I don't think I could faint if I wanted to. It's so loud."

"I think alcohol is the solution here. Agreed?” The woozy, cloudy feeling of champagne sounded as appealing as a cozy nap, so she nodded vigorously, and Meg beamed. "Let me find Cécile and Sorelli, too, so we can—oh. Hold on." Her smile turned sly. "Let’s keep you sober for a bit.”

Christine didn't have to look to know, but she followed the point of Meg's finger anyway.

Maybe she should have been surprised to see Erik standing several metres away, but he had been present enough in her thoughts these past years that it just made sense—like the physical world was finally matching up with the one inside her head. He didn't have social media, naturally, nor had he been around when her family called, so at Juilliard, his place in Christine's life had been all in memories, anecdotes, and daydreams.

Sometimes, she hadn't been sure which was which; yes, he _had_ called her _my dear_ now and then during lessons, but as far as her mind was concerned, he'd thrown the endearment around constantly. She was pretty sure _that_ was fake.

But most certainties had blurred. He was a faraway jumble of traits as much as a presence she missed dearly; a grand, romantic vision as much as an immature crush she'd joked about with her college friends. Was he the sour sarcastic Nadir reported, the pretentious but awkward musician Meg complained about, or her eccentric, dedicated mentor? Was he really that tall and imposing, were his hands so strangely thin, how often did he smile and how often had she simply imagined him smiling? She wasn't even sure if his eyes were brown or blue, and had been too embarrassed to ask anyone at home. In college, there was no reason to care or even think about her vocal teacher's eyes. She tried to check, suddenly anxious to know, but his masked side was angled towards her.

He was just standing and talking to somebody. Noticeably tall, and that was coming from a Scandinavian girl in heels, but his stiff posture made him rigid rather than intimidating. Instead of just his usual button-down, he was in a a trim tailcoat, cream vest, and a little bowtie as white as his pressed shirt. That made her smile—all the other men were in regular tuxedo coats and ties, so Erik had either made a faux pas or overdressed on purpose. Both were easily possible.

"Do you want me to go with you," Meg said, “or do you want to talk to him by yourself?"

Immediately, she answered, "I'll be okay. Go ahead and find the others." But as soon as Meg brushed her arm and slipped into the crowd, she regretted her decision. What if Erik was in the middle of an important conversation? Maybe she shouldn't go over now. But if she went down that road, she might spend the whole night avoiding him and curse herself when she got home.

Christine was on the verge of tracking down her friends and asking for moral support when she thought she heard her name from behind her. Frowning, she craned her head this way and that.

"No, Miss Daaé! Over here!" She turned, and to her right was Gilles André, a tall, mousy-haired man and one of her favorites of the Paris Opera staff.

He was one of the few who had made it as far as he had on nothing but an adoration of all things music; throughout her years in the ballet school, he'd occasionally stopped by to chat with her instructors, and she'd seen him talking to Mme Giry, M. Reyer, and the dramatists about productions. There was no matter at the Garnier too small for his attention. For reasons she'd been unable to coax out, Erik disliked André, but when the director had heard that a _petit rat_ was going to Juilliard, he had personally congratulated Christine, and that had more than won her fondness.

She glanced back. Erik was still engaged in his conversation. At the idea that maybe he didn’t want to talk to her, the re-meeting of half-strangers that she had dreaded seemed suddenly appealing.

Would he notice her if she went about her business?

 _Why would he?_ she asked herself, irritated at the childish thought. So she walked over to where André stood with two singers from the company: Mme Giudicelli, a soprano, and the much-lauded tenor M. Piangi. Sometimes, she'd watched them rehearse from backstage, and had once complained to Erik that she'd never have Mme Giudicelli's agility and range. Now, the singers nodded politely at her, and she recalled the feeling of accidentally walking into a class full of juniors her first week of college.

"I had no idea you'd returned, mademoiselle," André said with a smile. "I'm sure you're familiar with everyone—everyone, Christine Daaé. She was one of our dance students, and has just returned from school. Juilliard! Can you believe it? I was rejected for graduate school there,” he added jovially, and Christine's eyes widened. "Oh, don't look so guilty. You deserved it more."

"Well, auditions are in October," Mme Giudicelli said with a smile. "I'm sure your talents are up to par. Will you be there?"

"I hope so, madame."

"Please, Carlotta’s fine. You must be, what, twenty-two? The ballet corps gets younger and younger every year," she remarked.

Christine hoped the surprise didn't show on her face. Of course they thought she was a dancer; only a few people knew she'd been having vocal training during her time in school. She wasn't sure whether to be flattered that they assumed she was still a great ballerina or offended that she didn't _seem_ like a singer, whatever that would've meant.

Piangi gave the soprano a fond nudge. "While we seem to age at double speed. Perhaps _I_ should have been a dancer."

Christine smiled at the joke, unable to resist a glance backwards. Erik was still in the same place, apparently looking nowhere but at the man he was speaking to.

"Speak for yourself, honey." Mme Giudicelli gave Christine an exaggerated wink, to which Christine wasn't sure how to react. "I look your age, don’t I? But you've chosen the right career. Singing alone doesn't do much for your body, I'm afraid."

Christine tucked back her hair with a forced little laugh. "I’m actually a singer too. That's what I went to college for."

Mme Giudicelli blinked.

"How silly of me not to have clarified!" André patted Christine's shoulder. "Do you know my assistant? No? Well, he's quite the singer. Very clever, too. He taught Miss Daaé for years."

"How wonderful." M. Piangi glanced at his fiancée. "In that case, it’s graduate school next, I suppose?"

"Uh, I... already did that," Christine said, the same way she'd say, _I had a little too much to drink last night._ "I'm twenty-three? There were a lot of language requirements at my school," she continued when nobody replied, "but I already spoke French, obviously. And my Italian was pretty good. So I finished early, I guess, and just re-applied there for grad school. A lot of people do it."

That last part was a lie: very few students received both their bachelor's and master's degrees from Juilliard, and even fewer did so after only three years of undergrad. _Nice job,_ Christine thought, almost wishing she had a mirror to roll her eyes at.Countless reminders during undergrad to be confident no matter what, to present herself as a successful performer, and she was good at it. Or so she'd thought until now—undermining herself in front of the first people she met at the opera. Maybe it was something about being in America, or surrounded by professors who had praised her often. Christine felt an irrational surge of annoyance at them for the clearly-temporary ego they'd given her.

"Aren't you precocious," said Mme Giudicelli after a moment.

"Thanks," she replied quietly. She glanced back again. This time, Erik was looking around, and when he caught her eye, the visible half of his face remained blank for a second.

But before she could wonder how on Earth he’d forgotten her, he straightened, his brow shooting up. If he were anyone else, she might imagine him to be thinking _oh, shit,_ and Christine whipped around to her companions, pulse quickening.

"Speaking of my teacher,” she said, hoping she sounded apologetic rather than relieved, “he's over there, and I haven't seen him yet.” She hesitated. "I'm so sorry to run off, but is it okay if I...?"

"Please!” André waved a hand, and she shot him a grateful glance.

"Okay. I'm sorry again. Madame, monsieur, it was great to meet you," she said; M. Piangi beamed, his fiancée smiled thinly, and she waved and shot off.

For a moment, she had to stop cold; it seemed Erik had disappeared entirely. Face scrunching, Christine tried to catch a glimpse of the mask between all the open mouths and laughing eyes, the ostentatious hairdos and swinging earrings.

She wondered if she had imagined him entirely, but no, Meg had seen him earlier. Maybe she'd just have to catch him another time. She was trying to assess whether this was a good thing or not when a white bowtie appeared in her vision.

"Oh my gosh!" She jolted straight. "Monsieur. Hello."

Her first thought was that she'd been right to be confused about his eyes. The one on the bare side of his face, her right, was brown, and the other—well, blue was one word. It was more that it had failed to have much color at all, like he was blind on that side. How had she not remembered _that?_ Well, it was more likely he'd be glad than offended at her forgetting.

Erik stood in charged silence for a long moment. He regarded her, she thought, like maybe he’d forgotten the color of _her_ eyes. At least they were even, then.

"Miss Daaé," he said, as if they had run into each other somewhere inappropriate—a bar, or outside the same hotel room. “What are you doing here?” Christine didn’t know how to deliver the very obvious answer, but before she could try, he blinked and composed himself, shaking his head. “Of course,” he added, “it doesn’t matter, this being a most pleasant surprise.” He offered a tiny smile, and abruptly, he was amiable, if not charming. It was obviously an act, an attempt to distract her from his beat of awkwardness. She was surprised he thought it would work on her.

To be fair—if she had just met him, it would have. His _voice_. That aspect of him had survived perfectly in her memory: smooth-edged and lilting, not very low, but rich in timbre.

He studied her face with a not-unkind but unreadable expression, those diametric eyes piecing her together. "Nadir told me you were back in Paris, but I imagined you would need more time to rest before coming to the Garnier. Are you not still jet-lagged?"

"I sort of am," she admitted. “I definitely—” She was about to quip something about knowing how tired she looked, but caught herself. _Do not joke about your appearance and ruin this ten seconds in._ "I’m definitely used to functioning on not enough sleep, though.”

Christine half-expected a reprimand, but instead, Erik nodded. "As am I. Anyhow, it is good of you to be here," he said. He took in her appearance again, then hesitated. "You are wearing a very luxurious dress."

She wasn't sure if that was an observation or a compliment. "You’re wearing a luxurious three-piece suit."

"I know," he said, then rubbed the mask in discomfort. "No, what I meant was that the dress is nice."

That made the first time he'd said anything kind about her appearance, and she hated herself for noticing, but beamed. "Thank you. It was my mom's. I guess you've never seen me all dressed up, huh?" She’d shown up to every singing lesson in jeans and a crewneck at best, or ballet tights and a ratty t-shirt at worst.

Strangely, Erik treated this as a real revelation, not a piece of ornamental small-talk. He looked up—"Ah, that had not occurred to me”—then nodded decisively. “Very true. You know,” he mused, shoulders relaxing, “I believe it is throwing me off somewhat."

"The fact that I look nice?"

"Yes. I mean, no," he said hurriedly, "the fact that you look like an adult."

Christine frowned. He wasn't _that_ much older. And she’d thought herself a relatively mature teenager, too, so how childish could she have seemed back then?

Never mind. She was being defensive because she was nervous, she told herself. In all likelihood, he didn’t mean to be condescending, and so she would move on.

“Well, it’s been awhile,” she said, then, to change the subject, “how are you?”

“Me? Fine.” He shrugged with stagey, utterly unconvincing nonchalance, and she snorted.

“You’re never _fine_ ,” she couldn’t help but say, and he frowned, miffed.

“On the contrary, Miss Daaé, I am almost always fine.”

“No. You always have something to complain about," she reminded him good-naturedly, "or, okay, sometimes you’re in a good mood, but there’s no in-between.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed in confusion. _Shit. Stupid._ She’d said far worse things as his student, always in a teasing spirit, but maybe she’d jumped the gun. Besides, as she’d learned the hard way, you couldn’t tell someone with a resting bitch face that they actually had one.

“That was a joke,” she amended frantically. “You do seem fine most of the time. I was just… joking. Like I said.”

“Oh.” He shook his head, face clearing. “My mistake.”

“No! Not at all. It was my mistake.”

“No, really, do not worry.” They hesitated for a moment. Erik cleared his throat. “I am making this uncomfortable, aren’t I?”

His saying so was a relief. “Don’t worry. We both are.” She tried hesitantly for another joke: “Maybe you could complain about something?”

This time, he had the sense to play along, and there was effort in his smile, but nothing false. “Perhaps you are right. What would you like to hear about—those imbecile managers, some ridiculous diva?”

“Those are your colleagues!”

“Forgive me,” said Erik, sounding not at all sorry, “but you _did_ ask.”

“Well, that’ll teach me,” she replied in the same dry tone, and if she hadn’t listened carefully, she might have missed his quiet laugh. With that, she felt the ice cracking a little, felt his polite façade begin to ease away. She shoved down her small surge of delight, kept the shred of courage that appeared. “Okay,” she said, “for real. How are you?”

Though she had just asked the same question earlier, he faltered. “The same as always,” he said after a moment, then made a dismissive gesture—directed at her or at himself, she wasn’t sure. “But we have much to catch up on in terms of _you_ ,” he went on, too cheerfully. “I must hear about Juilliard, and those illustrious teachers who replaced me.” He waved at a waiter passing with a tray, and the boy stopped, eyeing Erik nervously. Without acknowledging him, Erik pinched the stems of two glasses, offering one to Christine as the waiter scurried away.

“Oh, take it,” he said when she raised her eyebrows, feeling like it was a trick question. “I am sure you drank behind all of our backs before college.” When she didn’t reply, he shifted. “Shall we walk? Standing still in all this chaos makes one feel claustrophobic, no?” Before she could answer, he set the champagne glass in her hand, cool fingers brushing hers, and spun toward the stairs, nodding for her to come along.

It took a second for Christine to process all this. How quickly he’d brushed off her question, the way he hadn’t thanked the waiter, his practically ordering her to follow—just as their mutual discomfort had started to fade, her earlier uncertainty returned. Had he always been that way? Withholding, aloof, directive? Those definitely weren’t qualities she’d dreamed about fondly.

And though it wasn’t offensive exactly, she was puzzled by his assumption that she’d started drinking early. True, Nadir and Rookheya practiced their faith loosely and had offered her wine at dinner sometimes; she and her friends had passed around a bottle at more than one sleepover at Meg’s. But it wasn’t as if she’d been out partying before she’d gone to New York. She’d never really had the time. At least in that respect, Erik didn’t think her a child, so maybe she should be flattered.

Or maybe, she told herself, she should stop reading into things. Anyway, Erik was used to bossing her around. It was what teachers did. She could forgive one instance that annoyed her.

 _Two instances,_ said a voice in her head. _The you-look-older comment._ But why should she have been annoyed about that? So she caught up with him as he ascended the grand marble staircase, alighting on the less-crowded second floor.

“Room to breathe,” he told her as they strolled slowly, “but I will not make you climb any more stairs. I imagine it is unpleasant in heels.” Christine gave him a look, and he continued, “Of course, women bear them admirably, but they look terribly painful. Not that I can assume. I have certainly never worn them. But—” he cut himself off. “You understand my meaning.”

“Spoken like someone who wears high heels in secret.” This time, the joke came out stilted, even to her own ears, but to his credit, Erik pretended not to notice.

“Ah, how did you guess? Every day, I get home, take off my mask, and don a pair of stilettos. They function just as well to improve my appearance.”

Christine tilted her head in surprise. _That_ kind of comment was not normal. “Are we making mask jokes already?” she asked, only partly kidding. It occurred to her that he’d been at the party longer than she, that this glass of champagne might not be his first, and despite herself, she felt a flicker of excitement.

“I suppose we are. But perhaps we should save such unpleasant subjects.” He stopped in an uncongested spot and faced her. “We have more important things to discuss. How are you, my dear?” he asked, and damn it, her chest and face warmed.

“Oh. Well, you know.” She waved her hand vaguely. “Happy to be back. A little overwhelmed.”

“Yes, this cannot be the easiest re-introduction to the opera, hm?” He watched her face for her response before continuing. “I can hardly stand these things myself, and God knows I have not been traveling… I wouldn’t be here if Adeline had not insisted.”

Christine sipped her champagne—it was _good_ , not surprisingly, given André and Firmin’s known extravagance, but a far cry from the cheap stuff she’d gotten used to. She took a second sip before saying, “Madame Giry _insisted_ you be here?”

Erik lifted a shoulder, but the visible half of his face brightened. “I suppose we are friends, of late. I enjoy her company. She said she needed me around in case she felt like talking to someone ‘dour and jaded,’ which I cannot deny being.” As she took another sip, he frowned. “But Miss Daaé, we are meant to be talking about you. Why do you let me ramble on?”

She smiled at his genuine consternation. He was trying again, she realized, to be charming. “I'm getting so much information about you. How many of those have you had, by the way?”

“Several, but it takes more than a few glasses of champagne to make me talk so incessantly.” Erik opened his mouth to continue, but without warning, cocked his head like a spaniel and hesitated. Christine thought to ask whether her posture was all right when he spoke. “I forgot what an attentive listener you are,” he said. “That has not changed.”

That wasn’t a quality she’d known she’d had in the first place. “Attentive?” she repeated stupidly. “I was told I was a super distracted student.” With her free hand, she covered the right half of her face and lowered her voice: “ _Miss_ Daaé,” she intoned, “what _are_ you daydreaming about, pray tell? Is it _really_ more interesting than Schumann?”

“Very funny.” The amusement faded quickly from Erik’s features. “I am quite serious. When someone is speaking, you are very respectful. I suppose I took it for granted as your teacher—you were _meant_ to listen to me—but it makes you very easy to talk to.”

“Good to know.” She forced a little laugh, averting her gaze from his earnest attention. “Thank you for… saying so, I guess.”

He waved this off, and on an unspoken agreement, they began to stroll again. After a moment of peaceful quiet, he piped up to ask about her time at Juilliard, and she found herself at a loss.

Christine had thought she was done with formative experiences—two parental deaths and three moves had changed her enough for one childhood, thank you very much—but at college, even coming in as world-weary as she’d thought herself, she’d learned what a childhood actually _was._ How to communicate that feeling to Erik, of all people? How to explain the encouragement from her new friends to stop spending her free hours in practice rooms, the late nights of Netflix and storytelling and dressing up for no reason? The days of playing tourist, the candy that dyed her tongue? The sheer freedom, not in that awful, grand American sense, but a smaller, more precious way?

She tried her best, telling Erik about how surprised she’d been to see her most industrious friends dancing horribly at parties, hear her professors make dirty jokes and even curse, and be stopped on the street by strangers who only wanted to compliment her outfit.

“Ah. I have never been to the States, but I expected your culture shock to be a little less pleasant.”

Ignoring the subtle jab, she told him about the biggest shock: her American classmates, whom she’d expected to be ignorant, being so graceful in both embracing their own traditions and fitting right in. Swedish, Iranian, and French by passport, she’d thought herself a worldly woman amongst country folk, but her friends from Korean, Dominican, and even Singaporean families had laughed off her superiority.

“I suppose,” Erik admitted, “we _are_ unfair to the Americans, sometimes.”

“More than sometimes. I would love to try to see you out-culture my friends,” she said in a burst of defensiveness, and to her surprise, he smiled.

She told him about Broadway, about her initial doubts—her pretentious attitude having been all thanks to him, really—and how enchanted she’d been.

“Please do not tell me you loved _Hamilton._ ” Then, at her sheepish silence, “Miss Daaé. I take no issue with, say, _Les Misérables,_ but of all the shows—really!”

“Don’t be mean to me!” By this time, Christine was on her third glass of champagne, and stopped herself from hitting his arm. “It’s about an orphan immigrant who works really hard and achieves their dreams. Why wouldn’t I like it?” This shut Erik up, though he did roll his eyes.

But there was so much she couldn’t even try explaining. Her life before college had been, in retrospect, not all that different from his: consumed by music, confined to a small circle of friends and the world of the Palais Garnier. She had almost always been in the ballet studio, at a vocal lesson, or with other girls from the Paris Opera’s dance school. In America, her group of friends had been similarly small, but there were always larger activities to go to, and almost every class she’d been in had gotten along like some strange family. She and her best friends had taken the train to Boston on a whim, made a habit of trying new things—they’d known from the start that they’d only had so much time together, and in their last months, even the silliest endeavors had taken on sentiment and weight. Erik would never see the value in learning dumb dance routines at two in the morning, or orchestrating photo shoots for Instagram.

And Raoul. Oh, Raoul. The ridiculous fun she’d had with him. Early in their relationship, a waiter had openly flirted with her, and in response, they’d planned a huge show of debating who would pay the check: _oh, please,_ darling _, let me, it’s what people who are_ dating _do!_ And as they’d walked out, on a whim, she’d made sure the waiter was looking and placed Raoul’s hand in her back pocket. The old Christine would have died at the thought of such a thing, but it had been so funny she hadn’t cared. They’d wandered Fifth Avenue and pretended to be filthy rich, spoiled kids, sighing loudly that their parents had only given them a few thousand dollars to spend, and collapsed with laughter after being kicked out.

Her face heated at the mere memories. So many things she’d thought only people in fantasy coming-of-age films had done: kissing in the back of theatres, excusing themselves from gatherings of friends to choruses of _have fun_ and _be safe!_ No, it was over, had been over for a long time, but she couldn’t tell Erik about all _that._ When he made an offhand remark about American college boys—“You are always quite sensible, but I do hope you were careful, my dear”—she laughed, said there’d been no drama there, and changed the subject. Erik found nothing suspicious in this. He nodded, said he was glad, and looked at her expectantly, thinking only of whatever she might say next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i going to use madame and monsieur but just say MISS instead of mlle.? yes. i know i should decide whether i'm using french words or not, and i probably shouldn't use them because we already KNOW they're speaking french, but... "mrs. guidicelli" sounds lame and "mademoiselle daaé" is too many syllables to hear in your head! i tried but it made my sentences feel clumsy. and this is how it's gonna be i'm sorry
> 
> you can stop reading now if you're bored of note :-0 i just want to say that since fic is meant to be fanservice, i am totally willing to consider comments about character and story, and how you hope something or other might happen/be represented going forward, and how your thoughts about the phantom story might fit into my idea! however, writing criticism in terms of craft and style is not very helpful to me for a reason that makes me sad, but is unfortunately true: as a college student, i simply don't have the time to write fic at the same level that i write class assignments and pieces for publication. while i do want to write well, very much!, i can't afford to try and make this my best writing--essentially, i know i can do better, but while i love feedback in a workshop setting, when it comes to this story, i'm not really able to take criticism that would necessitate time-consuming revision. i'm sorry :~( that said if there's like one metaphor that like... really creeps you out or something then by all means lmk HAHA


	2. Reintroductions, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! sorry about the delay--not that there are, like, thousands of you waiting ravenously for the next chapter, but i still feel guilty when i take longer than expected to update! i'm moving back to college soon, which is why this took some time, but i am not giving up on this fic any time in the foreseeable future!! 
> 
> for now, let's go meet sorelli and cécile, christine's other besties. and also have some more erik. enjoy :~)

“Well hell- _oh_ , Christine,” said Sorelli with an air of mock reproach. “You look beautiful. Now, I _know_ you didn’t avoid us for an hour to talk to M. Erik.”

As soon as she had left her old teacher’s side, promising to say goodbye before she went home for the night, Christine’s three closest friends had all but pounced on her. Meg and Cécile were now bickering about something or other; Meg mimed sloshing the contents of her glass onto Cécile’s dress, and Sorelli rolled her eyes, bemused. On her fifth, maybe sixth glass of champagne, Christine felt weightless, and the sight of her best friends teasing each other gave her heart a giddy lurch. Maybe it was a good thing she and Erik had parted ways for the evening, for with each glass, she'd had the urge to say truer and truer things, and had damn near told him she'd missed him a little.

“No way was I with him for an hour,” she insisted laughingly. “Were you guys following us?”

“Maybe. If we were, it wasn’t for long.” Sorelli shrugged gracefully. Though technically as much of a foreigner as Christine, with an Italian mother and Chinese father, she made every move with the magnetic nonchalance of a real Parisienne. She never found cause to compare her friends, but in her pleasantly dizzy state, Christine thought Sorelli might be the most stunning, if only by a little bit, with sleek, angular features and a conspiratorial smile, cutting dark eyes and the straightest black hair she’d ever seen. Tonight, she wore a loose green dress with a high neck—rather too short for such an occasion, but she could easily have walked down the runway in it, so who was going to dress-code her?

“Whatever.” Christine grinned. “You look super gorgeous, by the way. You too, Cécile,” she added, and the brunette turned with a glowing smile, grasping her fingers.

“Not as pretty as you!” she said. This was not true. Cécile looked like a fawn had become a girl, with an artful spray of freckles across her cheeks and an endearing, slightly-upturned nose. She had just cut her hair to her shoulders, and it moved with her as she tilted her head. “That’s such a good color for you. What did M. Erik think? Oh, you’ll have to tell him his suit looks nice for me.”

Meg snorted. “Since when do _you_ think Erik is hot?”

“I don’t. I just think he’s dressed really well.”

“Yeah? Go tell him that. _Ooooh, monsieur, your suit is sooo handsome!”_

“I didn’t say _handsome,_ Meg—don’t give me that look, you’re so mean!”

They dissolved into squabbles again, and Sorelli gave an affected little sigh.

“Why don’t you and I pass the Bechdel Test, Christine.” She offered her elbow. “Who else have you talked to tonight?”

“Well, M. André introduced me to these two singers; they were nice, but kind of intimidating. They thought I was a ballet dancer, which was kind of awkward…” Arm in arm, they made their way through the crowds, discussing Carlotta’s _precocious_ remark and Christine’s desire to _not_ sing in front of her. Sorelli’s almost parental certainty about everything was reassuring and familiar, and as she dutifully advised against another glass of champagne, Christine found herself with the surreal feeling that this exact sort of night had happened last week, and the week before that, too. The sweet chorus of the violins, the conversation all around that was both murmur and roar, the way everything up to the high ceiling shone like some impossible future… the world of the Palais hadn’t changed at all, but she was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to be a part of its unending song.

“… I think you’re projecting your self-consciousness,” Sorelli was saying. Right. Carlotta.

“Maybe. Anyway, I don’t want to dwell on it,” she said, abruptly deciding to drop the subject. “You know, I’m so glad to be back. I don’t know why I waited to come.”

“To the Garnier? I think you _do_ know why.”

“Well, like, I _was_ nervous, but that was… stupid.”

“Yeah, it was.” Sorelli laughed. “I hope you keep that mindset, but I have a feeling you’ll think differently tomorrow morning.”

Christine thought to ask what she meant by that—but what did it matter? The quartet finished another song, and she turned to beam up at them. Music, she realized, was what made this home more than the city of Paris itself.

“Well, otherwise, I’ve just been with you guys, you know.” Today, of course, it had only been her and Meg—and with a start, she remembered their conversation. It felt like days ago. “Hey, speaking of,” she said hesitantly, lowering her voice, “have you and Meg… talked lately?”

She was ready to lie that Meg was worried about solo auditions, but Sorelli nodded. “Yeah. She told me last week. She really wanted to call and tell you then, too,” she added when Christine faltered, “but she was nervous. She really cares what you think—what we all think, but I guess she knows I don’t give a fuck about anything.”

“Right. Okay. Does Cécile know?”

Sorelli glanced back. “Nope. I tried to subtly bring it up and she was clueless.” The edge of her mouth curled upward. “I can imagine why Meg would be nervous to say it to _her,_ if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t.” Christine glanced back too. “Wait.” Meg and Cécile were trailing close behind, pointing at something and whispering, leaning close together, and she gasped to herself, remembering Meg’s words. So there _wasn’t_ a hot new dancer. “Oh my gosh, _wait,_ ” she repeated, grinning, “can we, like…?”

“I’ve been trying. Think of it”—Sorelli let a rare giggle escape her—“opera romance!”

They pulled each other closer and began to walk again, sharing another excited laugh. But as they stepped around a large group, the delight faded quickly from her friend’s face.

“What is it?” Christine smiled to see Erik chatting with Mme Giry. “Oh, what’s wrong with that? Let’s go say hello.”

“But you just talked to him,” said Sorelli.

“Well, it would be polite to see Madame Giry anyway.”

“But that’s not why you want to.”

“Does it matter?” she asked irritably, but when Sorelli’s face flashed, she regretted her words. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap. But, I don’t know, do you have a problem with him or something?” She wasn’t entirely serious, but her friend pressed her lips together.

“It’s okay. But yeah, I sort of do. I mean, look, okay—I don’t really know him. Fine. But I just get a bad feeling.”

She blinked. Had Sorelli ever been the type to say such things frivolously, she might have brushed the comment off, but as it was, it felt like an insult to her judgement as much as Erik’s character. “That’s okay,” she said cautiously, “but he’s always been really good to me.” It was true. There had been times before when he’d frustrated her, and once or twice, he had lost his temper, but he’d never truly hurt her _._ “I know he can be weird, and a little… caustic,” she amended, “but can you trust me?” The nod she received would have to be enough. “Thank you. We’ll just quickly say hi, okay?”

When they approached Erik, waving Meg and Cécile along, he looked caught off-guard, but quickly recovered. “Hello again, Miss Daaé.”

“Hello to you too,” said Sorelli archly.

“Ah. Miss Wang. Good evening.” Funny, thought Christine; there was something about him that mirrored her friend, even beyond the immaculate black hair, something in the elegant presence and intense gaze, the cool, alluring composure. He acknowledged the other girls with a nod. “Miss Giry, Miss Jammes.”

“If it isn’t our friend Erik!” Meg said, mocking his formal cadence, and it took a second to register that she had addressed him by his first name, to his face. How drunk was she? But no, Meg was never audacious because she lost control; quite the opposite. It was her way of showing off, like a teenage boy volunteering to move a table in front of the girls. “Have you been telling Maman how terribly she must have raised me?”

“We’ve said more than enough about that,” said Mme Giry. “Hi, girls. You all look lovely.”

“Why, thank you,” Meg quipped, and Cécile snorted. “Now, Erik, if you don’t mind.” Christine rolled her eyes as Meg extended an arm. Upon first meeting him, she’d teased him for his Victorian manners, and since insisted that he kiss her hand. It had initially been a stunt to make Christine uncomfortable.

But it was less the act itself that bothered her—the kiss wasn’t even pressed to Meg’s hand, not really—and more the fact that her former teacher submitted so willingly, even now. When her friend had first pulled the joke, Christine had been humiliated, telling Erik that _she wasn’t, like, flirting with you, she’s just like that._ The assurance had been met with a dry laugh. _Why would you say such a thing? I would never presume that from a fifteen-year-old._

As Erik took Meg’s hand and brought her knuckles so close to his lips, Christine felt the urge to look away. Her best friend was no longer a gawkish girl, and though no one else seemed to care at all, not even Sorelli, some unknowable part of her wanted it to stop.

Pleasantries aside, Mme Giry asked Meg what time they might go home, and Erik turned to face her. She shook her head to clear it; the moment was over, and she was above dwelling.

“You know, Miss Daaé,” he said, “there was something I meant to ask you.”

Now, Sorelli openly rolled her eyes and began to talk to Cécile.

Christine ignored this and smiled, secretly pleased that he had addressed her first once again. “Of course. Go on.”

“I would like to hear you sing.”

She laughed, because wasn’t that inevitable? “Like, now? Should I just replace the quartet?”

“Well, they’re rather good, so do not do that, but yes, now. Our old practice room is not far.”

Oh. So he was serious. “But I’ve had so much alcohol,” she said uncertainly.

“It doesn’t have to be 'Der Hölle Rache,' my dear. I simply want to see how your voice has changed. I will hear it at a more opportune time later, of course, but I admit, I am quite curious.”

Christine’s stomach tightened, and the effects of the champagne began to fade.

In the back of her mind lurked the fear that every one of her Juilliard instructors had had slightly lower standards than Erik. She knew she had improved immensely, but he’d sent her off with so much faith that his expectations were probably through the roof; she had no idea if she could give him the performance he wanted at all, let alone past midnight at a party.

“You don’t think it’d be better to wait ‘till tomorrow?”

“I will not make you over-work your voice, I promise.” His tone became more insistent. “I think it would be better to do this tonight.”

“Why?” she retorted, catching herself when he blinked. “Sorry. But why?”

“Well, to really welcome you home—things won’t be quite the same until I hear you,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I would just like for us to… it will be like before.” One shoulder rose in a jerky, compulsive gesture.

His face, as much as she could see, was open, and her resolve wavered. She was silent for long enough that he looked away. Did he really miss her voice that much? she wondered, and the idea, unlikely as it was, reminding her that she might disappoint him, still gave her a small thrill.

“Fine,” she said, and he lit up—something she’d never seen on so slight an occasion.

“Wonderful. Miss Daaé is going to sing for me,” he announced to their companions. “We shall return soon.” Christine only had time to mouth _sorry_ to an unimpressed Sorelli, and then he set off quickly, weaving through the crowd. She kept up a monologue of _excuse me_ s as she picked her way around couples and throngs, almost losing Erik twice. Only once he pushed open a door to a nearby hallway and Christine went ahead did he relax to a normal pace.

The sudden silence felt thick in her ears as the door closed behind them. Even more of the champagne-feeling seemed to fizzle away in the fluorescents, leaving her with only an imbalanced feeling inside, and though she had just made her choice, she wondered if this was a good idea.

To distract herself, she watched the flicks of Erik’s tailcoat as he led her along. Led her, she realized after a second, like a puppy—even though she knew perfectly well where they were going. But maybe he just felt awkward. She certainly did.

Once again, the voice in her head huffed as she dismissed the concern, and in the buzzing quiet, it was harder to ignore her thoughts. How many little things had there been that evening? She couldn’t be certain whether they were _all_ valid—she knew she could be defensive—but the repeated snipes at her for liking Broadway, and one insinuation that her American friends probably weren’t well-read, had been uncalled for. _And you know what,_ she thought, _he really_ should _have thanked that waiter._

There was no reason to work herself up, but she was dismayed to realize she hadn’t spoken up about a single thing. And yet there was no reason to bring up any of it now, nor was she sure she really wanted to. She wanted to believe that he didn’t mean any of it, that she had only to get used to things and he would be the man she remembered again. But she couldn’t even say who that man was.

For the present, she contented herself with this: “Why are you walking ahead? I know where it is.”

It came out with more attitude than she’d intended, and hearing herself, she shrank a little. Erik fully about-faced to look at her. His expression was baffled, not angry in the slightest; of course, he hadn’t been privy to her internal monologue, but somehow she’d expected him to argue.

“Forgive me,” he said. He waited until she was next to him, then began walking again.

Well, that was that, she supposed _._ There was no satisfaction in having said it, but with nothing else to do, her brief spark of annoyance faded into unsatisfied discomfort. Plus, now that Erik was beside her, she didn’t really know what to do with him. The only sound was of their footfalls on the carpeted floor.

As soon as Erik pushed open the door and ushered her into their old practice room, the quiet became blessedly less stifling, at least for Christine. This place had always been separate, to her, from the flurry of the rest of the opera house, its creamy interior a respite from everything, and a sigh escaped her as she looked around.

“It’s just the same,” she said, half to herself.

“Yes,” Erik agreed, and, hearing the same note of nostalgia in his voice, she shot him a hesitant smile. He returned it. She hoped that if things could be the same anywhere, even marginally so, it would be here.

Though they called this a practice room, it was actually an old dressing room, spacious, clearly meant for a leading lady. Citing its acoustics, Erik had chosen it when they’d first started their lessons, and after several years, it carried the spirit of the place she’d truly learned to sing. The full-length mirror he’d brought in was still leaning against one wall; also remaining were the piano, to her right, gleaming as if recently cleaned, and the large dresser, engraved with roses, that they hadn't felt the need to remove. A small window showed the landscape of Paris, violet and gold and sparkling. The reminder of the rest of the world was a relief.

All night, she’d been too preoccupied to reminisce, but here, in the downy silence, the memories played unbidden like movie scenes. Erik’s anxious encouragement during their first few lessons, hell-bent on not letting her quit; his subdued smiles when she got it “right,” more and more frequent as she adjusted to his teaching; his failures to act annoyed at her teasing; the time she’d asked him about his favorite authors and they’d forgotten about singing entirely.

And God, she’d been here every single day when practicing for her college auditions. With badly-concealed worry, Erik had forced her to practice piano and sight-reading so she wouldn’t exhaust her voice. It had been worse waiting for her results, as every time she’d envisioned rejection, her desire to practice had crumbled. _Miss Daaé,_ he’d said gently, _there is a future beyond Juilliard, whether you attend or not._ In the last week before decisions came out, when singing at all had brought her to the verge of tears, he had calmly closed the piano and given her a moment to collect herself. _Do not apologize. Would you like to go home? Then why don’t we practice your Italian instead? There is a poem I love by Boccaccio—here—see how much you can understand._

She’d been officially accepted after a ballet class so strenuous she’d thought of nothing but the ache in her body and the happy promise of a good meal. Seeing the link to her decision in her inbox had wiped away the contented exhaustion, almost bringing her to her knees with a wave of nauseous dread.

And after her and her friends’ euphoric tears had passed, it was him she had run to next. As soon as he had opened his office door and seen her face, he’d gasped in delight, his _Oh, Miss Daaé!_ so joyous and unlike him it had multiplied her giddiness, and it had taken all her willpower not to hug him tight; he’d placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her when she’d tried to thank him. _Don’t be ridiculous. It was only you, my dear._

“But it really has been a long time, hasn’t it?” he said, interrupting her thoughts and grounding her once more in their little room. She glanced over to see him looking at her with a mixture of apprehension and wistfulness. “Maybe we have not changed—the opera, myself—but you have. More, I have a feeling, than I even yet realize.”

“Probably.” She shrugged mildly. “But you let Meg call you by your first name now. That’s character development.”

“Character development,” he echoed with a short laugh. “I wish. You should know that when it comes to Miss Giry, one has little choice in such matters.” They stood in not-unbearable silence for a moment before he moved to the piano, lifting the lid and removing the key cover. “Although,” he added, sweeping aside his coattails and sitting at the bench, “I suppose it would be strange for _you_ to keep addressing me so formally, then.”

This hadn’t been her intention in bringing it up, but as she took the steps to stand nearer, she found herself thinking, _that was easy._ “Well, I call you that behind your back, anyway.”

“My name?”

“Yeah. You know.”

“Yes, I know what it is.”

“Okay, good. So do I.”

He stared up at her expectantly.

“Well, now it’s weird,” she protested, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Fair enough. Shall we warm up a little? I promised not to strain your voice.” He played a chord, then its tonic. “Trills. Just do the triad for now, up and down.”

But graduate school had made her accustomed to making her own decisions about her exercises, and to be coached through them step-by-step seemed tedious, now. She knew her voice inside out, and even when she was confident about nothing else, she could be certain she knew what it needed. So, encouraged by his thawing manner, she forced herself to say, “Actually, I warm up a bit differently than we did before.”

Christine had lost count of how many times, including now, Erik had looked at her with genuine puzzlement. Like she had spoken some truth so obscure he wasn’t sure whether to believe her. Strange that he hadn’t tried to hide it.

“That makes sense,” he said finally. “Just tell me what to play.”

To his credit, he played this new part dutifully. No longer did he ask her to repeat certain phrases—she caught herself before he had a chance—instead of expecting feedback, she would ask, “That was sharp, wasn’t it?” and wait for his agreement.

“You hardly need me anymore,” he remarked when they were done. Before she could protest, he surprised her with a pleased shake of the head. “That was not meant to be passive-aggressive. After all, you paid all that tuition for something.”

“No amount of independence could justify that much money, but yeah, thanks.”

His laugh was short and light. “Well, let us see if it was marginally worth it. Are you ready to sing?”

Technically, yes, but actually, no. The way he phrased it made her throat tighten a little. It was practically a test, her final, final exam: did she sing like a Juilliard graduate or not?

“Miss Daaé,” said Erik, seeing the look on her face, “I have heard you at your absolute worst—”

“Thanks.”

“I have heard you at your absolute worst,” he repeated, irritation edging his voice, “and even when your technique fails, even when you cannot hit the high notes, your voice, at its core, is still the same.” He softened. “And it is one of the finest voices I have ever heard.”

Christine felt her expression melt, and didn’t have the heart to be ashamed of herself.

“You have a gift,” he continued. “I did not think it needed to be said.”

Actually, she remembered with a start, he _had_ said that before, on the day they’d met. When he’d caught her in a practice room, fifteen and debilitatingly insecure, singing modulated-down arias, she’d wanted to collapse and die right there; _see you soon, Mamma and Pappa!_ But Erik had been incredulous to hear that she was in school for dancing rather than singing. _A crime. You have a gift, mademoiselle._

When they had introduced themselves, he’d realized she was his best friend’s niece, she’d realized he was the man her uncle was always jokingly trash-talking, and things had fallen quickly into place. _I owe Nadir my life twice over, so the lessons will be free of charge. Please think it over._ It wasn’t until later that he admitted he’d never taught before in his life.

With that recollection, it occurred to her: her voice, to him, was part and parcel of who she was. It was the reason he had spoken to her, the reason he had stood by her, the reason he was determined to have her alone now.

While that still meant she couldn’t let him down, it also meant that it would take more than one failure to make him give up on her. Just as she wanted to believe in him _,_ he wanted to believe in her singing.

Erik looked up at her expectantly from the piano bench. “Please?” he asked with a restrained politeness. Christine had always thought of her voice as the most vulnerable part of herself, but she’d learned that it was also her surest way to have power over others. She had never really thought so when it came to Erik, but maybe he was no exception.

So, without giving herself another moment to dwell, she said, “Right. Let’s do something simple.” The first song he’d taught her was a solid bet. “‘O mio babbino caro,’ do you have it memorized?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to? Whenever you’re ready.”

 _Breathe in, then out._ In, out. _This is easy. Just you and the song._ She hummed the first note, then gave him a nod.

Though it was a simple aria, a basic piece of every soprano’s repertoire, it was secretly still one of Christine’s favorites. Grief bled beneath its smooth surface; she began softly, controlling the higher notes, not jumping to them so much as stepping with a light foot. As sweet as a lullaby, as hopeless as an elegy, it filled her chest, brought her hands together to clutch each other.

Lauretta, who sung the aria in _Gianni Schicchi,_ was begging her father for permission to be with Rinuccio, the boy she loved. _He is beautiful, beautiful,_ she sang—translators often simply wrote _I love him, I do, I do,_ but Christine liked the original Italian better. It didn’t matter that she _did_ love him, but rather that everyone else understood why, how much, how desperately. A slight crescendo now for that insistence and small fire, the song lifting her body, swaying with her. Lauretta was pleading as much as proclaiming, certain no one in the world could understand, knowing she was lost if they never did.

 _My yearning, my anguish… Oh, God, I want to die._ Christine had once known that feeling, though for a vastly different reason. She had also long locked it away. Turned on the lights and sat up, gasping, when it crept up at night. Even now, she flitted away from it, unwilling to open _that_ door, even for the sake of the music.

But she also knew that at the center of that awful, consuming feeling was a desire more fervent than wanting to live: _wanting_ to want to live. So instead of the darkness, she sang for that, the inimitable hand pushing it down, the attempt to light the candle over and over again.

And she was holding the last note, eyes screwed shut and brows furrowed, it was floating in front of her, and one of her hands rose tense in the air, turned slowly with the decrescendo until all that remained was the silence only music could make.

When Christine opened her eyes, Erik’s hands still rested on the piano. He stared at them as if the long, slender fingers before him were not his own. For half a second, she was still, simply seeing him and feeling the near-intangible humming left in the air. Them. The music. It was right.

But as the song faded entirely, the self-consciousness began to creep back in. “I _did_ have a lot to drink,” she began hesitantly. “I’ll get a good night’s sleep, and I’m sure I’ll sound better tomorrow. I mean, I promise I will.”

Erik looked up at her then. His visible features were utterly slack, and his posture, she noticed, was off, his shoulders tense under an invisible weight.

“If you sound any better tomorrow,” he said slowly, “you will—I will…” He huffed, a quiet, shaky sound, then held her gaze. “My goodness, Miss Daaé.”

With such a vulnerable look on his face, the name sounded unnatural. “Christine,” she corrected.

“Christine,” he repeated, as if her name was the way she had sung, as if her name was the song itself, and her breath hitched. “I said before that you had a gift.”

She managed a lopsided smile. “Changed your mind?”

A breathy laugh. “No, but your voice is so different—not at all what I remember—it was a gift before, quite phenomenal for your age, but now… it is a miracle.”

What an enormous word that was. It caused a strange twist in her chest, and Christine drew in on herself then, looking away.

“I am quite serious,” he insisted, “I would not have recognized you if you had not been standing right here. I would not have _believed_ it.”

Erik placed his hands in his lap, twining his fingers together, looking down at them and cocking his head. His unmasked side was turned towards her, and she watched his brow furrow, his lips part and then close again.

Then, he turned to her and offered a hand. Christine took it, too stunned to do otherwise—fingertips calloused from the violin, palms so much bigger than she’d realized—and he grasped her fingers tight.

“Miss Daaé—Christine—do I always call you that now? May I make you a promise?” She could only nod. “You will be as great a soprano as you want to be. I will do everything in my power to make it so.”

 _Don’t promise me that,_ she wanted to say, her chest twisting harder.

His mismatched eyes flicked over her face. “It would be my honor,” he said slowly, “if you would let me be your teacher again.”


End file.
